


Piece by Piece (Day by Day)

by Fledgling



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Post Season 2 Finale, Selectively Mute!Din Djarin, Sign Language, Temporary Muteness, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:22:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28633206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fledgling/pseuds/Fledgling
Summary: After everything that happened—Typhon, Gideon, the Darksaber—Din finds himself back in Mos Pelgo, shattered and lost. Thankfully, there’s a marshal there that’s more than happy to help Din piece himself back together.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 22
Kudos: 324





	Piece by Piece (Day by Day)

**Author's Note:**

> Whooo boy this got long without me intending it to. Honestly it probably could be even longer, but I’m happy with where it is now.   
> This is the first time I’ve ever written a character using sign language (I don’t know if there is a canon sign language, so I just made up Basic Sign Language in its place) so please, if there’s anything I did wrong or that seems not-quite-right, let me know.   
> And as always, you can find me on Tumblr [here](https://i-dnt-know-either.tumblr.com/)

The time between watching the Jedi leave with Grogu and Boba letting Din off in Mos Pelgo passed in a blur. Din was only vaguely aware of things happening around him—Bo-Katan arguing with him about the Darksaber, dropping Cara and Gideon off on Nevarro, Boba’s ship breaking through Tatooine’s atmosphere. The weight of the Darksaber was heavy at his side throughout, a constant reminder of what had happened, what burden he now carried.

He stumbled out of _Slave I_ and onto the sands of Mos Pelgo only half aware of the action, his feet carrying him into the town. He heard the ship’s engines pick up behind him, half turning to watch it disappear into the night sky. He stood rooted in the spot for a long moment, the wind buffeting him back and forth before he restarted his path into town.

Mos Pelgo was near silent as he entered, the only sound being muffled voices from the cantina. Light spilled from the door and Din’s feet carried him to it, a moth to a lone flame. The voices grew louder as he approached, and an odd sort of relief went through him as he recognized the marshal’s among them. He stopped just short of the doorway, his weight sagging into the wall. The voices washed over him, the exact words indiscernible through the fog of stress and exhaustion. Din tried to will his feet forward, to move just the few steps forward into the cantina proper.

Nothing happened.

Din was distantly aware of the shivers wracking his body. The world tilted around him, first left and then right, and he squeezed his eyes tight.

“Mando?”

Din’s eyes flew open. He hadn’t heard the footsteps approach, and was therefore unprepared to see the marshal standing in front of him. The light from the cantina created a halo around him, his face hidden in shadow. He was close enough though that Din could make out the crease in his brow, the frown pulling at his lips.

Din opened his mouth to greet the marshal, but all that came out was a rasp of sound. Darkness was creeping into the edges of his vision, and he had half a second to realize what was about to happen before the darkness swallowed him whole.

When Din came to, he was lying in a bed.

A stone ceiling met him, the typical cream color of most of the buildings on Tatooine. Din lied there for a long time, staring at the stone and focusing on his breathing. His armor was gone, though his helmet remained in place. Whatever panic the thought of being left exposed might have summoned was buried under the immense exhaustion that permeated every fiber of his being.

The sound of a door opening and closing broke him from his reverie, and he turned his head to watch Cobb enter the room. The same worried frown was still in place on his face, though it softened when he noticed Din looking at him.

“Howdy partner,” he whispered.

Din tried to respond, but all that came out of his mouth was a hiss of air. He inclined his head, acknowledging Cobb as best he could.

“You know you gave me quite a fright,” Cobb said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Come out of the cantina to see ya lurking there in the shadows—didn’t even realize it was you at first. And when I did, I wasn’t sure you weren’t just a ghost.”

Din almost laughed—he wasn’t sure he wasn’t just a ghost either.

“Then ya just crumbled, like a puppet with all their strings cut, and, well,” Cobb raked his hand through his hair. “I took care of your injuries as best I could. Not sure if you’ve got anything goin’ on under your helmet there though.”

Din frowned. He didn’t remember taking any head injuries, but he didn’t remember boarding Boba’s ship either. He sighed, pushing himself up until he was sitting. Cobb watched him, hands outstretched to help if needed. Din looked down at himself; his flightsuit was still in place, but as he shifted he could feel the telltale scrape of bandages against the fabric.

“Mando? Ya alright?”

Din shook his head, the movement slow and jerky.

“What do you need?”

Din didn’t have the answer to that. He stared at his hands—Cobb had removed his gloves, and Din wondered in a detached way when the last time he had seen his own hands was. He lifted his head, looking around the room. His armor was stacked on top of a dresser to his right; there was a pile of rags and a bottle next to them.

“Hope you don’t mind,” Cobb said, following Din’s gaze. “I had to get it off to get to all of your injuries. I cleaned it all up while you were out; not too different from cleaning up the set I used to wear.”

Din nodded once. Cobb watched him, his eyes searching Din’s helmet. What he was looking for, Din didn’t know—he didn’t know what answers the blank beskar could give him, either.

“You feel up to eating something?” Cobb asked after a few seconds.

When was the last time Din had eaten? It had been before the attack on Gideon’s light cruiser—before they had infiltrated the Imperial compound to find the coordinates. He should be starving, and yet there was nothing. It was as if he didn’t have a stomach at all, just a void where it should be.

That was the crux of the problem, wasn’t it? His whole being felt hollow, empty, as if something had come through a scooped out everything he was, leaving only a fractured shell behind.

Din tried to speak once more, knowing that it was a lost cause before he even opened his mouth. A few whispered syllables were all that he could produce, barely loud enough to be picked up by his helmet’s modulator.

Cobb frowned and leaned forward. One hand came up, moving with aching slowness as it approached Din’s unprotected throat. He didn’t move—didn't even flinch when the marshal’s fingers grasped the zipper of his flightsuit, pulling it down below his collarbone. Warm fingertips brushed the skin of his throat, and it was the first thing Din had felt—actually _felt_ —in days. He gasped, his whole body suddenly alight and tense. Cobb flinched back, studying Din’s helmet.

“Did you take a hit to your throat?” Cobb asked. “I don’t see any damage, but that don’t mean much.”

Din forced his body to relax, shaking his head. How did he explain to Cobb that he had lost his voice—lost _everything he was_ —somewhere in the last few weeks? After a moment he raised his hands, ignoring the tremors running through them as he made the signs for _voice_ and _gone._ He had no idea if Cobb knew Basic Sign Language, but it was his best chance. He was relieved when Cobb’s eyes lit up in understanding.

“So, just your voice?”

Din nodded, then made the signs for _food_ and _please_.

“Sure thing buddy,” Cobb said, patting his knee as he rose. “You just make yourself comfortable here, I’ll see what I can whip up.”

_Thank you._

“Of course. Oh, and if you wanna clean up some, ‘fresher is through the door there,” Cobb pointed to a closed door to the left of the dresser.

Din watched him go, waiting for the door to close and the sound of the marshal’s footsteps to fade before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He stood slowly, his legs wobbling dangerously under him for a few seconds. He took one step, then another, crossing to the dresser. He stared at the armor, trying and failing to identify any of the emotions tangled up in his chest. Cobb had done a good job cleaning the armor, if nothing else—the beskar shone in the light, Din’s warped reflection staring back at him from the chestplate’s surface.

Din reached up, grasping the edge of his helmet with both hands. The seal broke with a hiss that echoed loudly in Din’s ears, and he set the helmet down next to the rest of the armor. He didn’t give himself time to think, making his way to the ‘fresher and locking the door behind him.

Din avoided looking in the small mirror until his flightsuit was completely off. He dumped the fabric in a careless pile, taking a deep breath before facing himself in the mirror. He barely recognized himself—between all the time in his armor and the fatigue, the man in the mirror was a practical stranger. Dark circles ringed his eyes; his facial hair was scruffy in an unkempt rather than an intentional way; his hair stuck up at odd angles from pulling the helmet off. The rest of his body was in similar shape, bruises and scars and stark white bandages breaking up the planes of tan skin.

What had Cobb thought, when he saw the mess that was Din’s body?

It didn’t matter. Din stepped into the ‘fresher, letting the sonics strip the sweat and blood from his body. He’d thank the marshal for his hospitality, piece himself back together and...

And what?

Din leaned his head against the wall of the shower. He had no path, no plan— _nothing._

Now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure what had drawn him to Mos Pelgo in the first place. He didn’t even remember asking Boba to drop him here, yet here he was. Had Boba made the decision for him? Either way he was here, guest to the town’s marshal; someone who, if nothing else, he felt he could trust.

That was enough, for now.

As he turned off the ‘fresher, another memory surfaced in his mind: Bo-Katan, eyes bright with fury, telling Din she would be back to claim the Darksaber. Would she be able to track him down in such a remote place? Probably, but it gave Din time to—to what? Prepare for battle? He had no desire for the saber, as a weapon or as the title that came with it. And she likely wasn’t the only person searching for it—others would come, for the saber or the child that Din no longer had or even for Din himself.

That left him with only one choice, didn’t it?

Din tugged his flightsuit on, taking one last look at himself in the mirror before leaving the room. He shuffled through the armor on the dresser until he found his cloak, pulling it over his head and wrapping it tight around himself. The heavy, familiar weight of it settled his thundering heart a little, steadying his hands enough for him to pull his boots on.

With one last look at the helmet on the dresser, Din left the room.

He found Cobb in the kitchen, stirring something in a pot on the stove. He was humming under his breath, the tune unfamiliar to Din but soothing nonetheless. Din made an effort to make his footsteps loud, announcing his presence to the other man.

“Feelin’ any better now?” Cobb’s voice trailed off as he looked up. His eyes widened in a way that was almost comical, and he quickly whipped his head around to stare at the pot.

“Ah, I think you forgot something back in the bedroom partner.”

Din moved to stand beside Cobb, watching him. Cobb’s eyes were glued to the pot, his grip on the spoon turning his knuckles white. Din wrapped his arm around Cobb’s bicep, squeezing once. When Cobb didn’t move he squeezed again, then tugged gently. Cobb’s head slowly turned, his eyes dancing across Din’s face.

“You have brown eyes,” he muttered.

Din nodded once. He let go of Cobb’s arm, raising his hands in front of himself. His movements were slow and careful, a mix of his own trepidation and wanting to make sure Cobb understood what he was asking.

_Can I stay?_

Cobb tilted his head to the side.

“Sure you can, however long ya need.”

_That might be a while._

Cobb shrugged, “Then you can stay a while. I can make up the guest room for you here in a bit.”

Din sighed, feeling some fraction of the tension he had been carrying since Tython ease from his shoulders.

_Thank you._

He hoped his facial expression showed his sincerity, though he couldn’t be sure. A lifetime of wearing the helmet had muted his expressiveness.

Judging by the soft grin that broke out across Cobb’s face, he at least somewhat hit the mark.

Cobb dished soup he made into two bowls, handing one to Din and keeping the other for himself. Din stared at it for a few seconds, letting the warmth seep into his hands.

“I tried to make something that would sit easy on your stomach,” Cobb said. “Wasn’t sure how you were feeling.”

Din nodded, lifting the bowl to his lips and taking a sip of the thin broth. He could feel the warmth travel through his body, chasing away some of the chill of fatigue that set in his bones. He grinned at Cobb, barely a lifting of the corners of his mouth.

_It’s good._

“Good, good. I made plenty, help yourself,” Cobb gestured to the pot on the stove.

Din doubted he’d be able to eat more than what was already in his bowl, but he kept that to himself. They stood in silence, the only sound the clink of spoons against bowls. Din had expected it to be awkward or tense in some way—instead, he found himself relaxing with each sip. The marshal had an easy, steady presence, like a beacon in a storm, and Din found himself grasping onto him.

“So,” Cobb started, keeping his eyes on his bowl, “where’s the kid?”

All the tension came back at once. Din set his bowl on the counter; the tremors had returned to his hands, and he found he couldn’t stop them.

_Gone. Safe. With his people._

His signs were sharp and choppy. The shaking made it harder to sign, and Din hoped Cobb wouldn’t notice.

“I see. Are,” Cobb cleared his throat, “are you safe?”

Din hesitated.

_No._

“Oh.”

_It’s complicated._

“Isn’t it always?” Cobb ran his hand through his hair.

Din watched him, waiting. It was what he was best at—though without the barrier of the helmet, he wasn’t sure if it carried the same weight it usually did.

“What can I do to help?” Cobb asked after a moment.

That wasn’t quite what Din was expecting. His mouth twisted.

_I need to hide._

“Mos Pelgo’s a good place for that. Not sure if there’s a place any further under the radar planet side, unless you want to go hang with the Tuskens.”

Din nodded slowly.

_Who knows I’m here?_

“No one but me.”

Din tilted his head to the side.

“It was pretty late when I, ah, found you,” Cobb explained. “I was able to pack you here by myself. You’re not as heavy as all that armor makes you look.”

There was an implication in his voice that had Din’s cheeks heating. Silence fell between them, Din flustered and Cobb thinking, fiddling idly with his spoon.

“How far underground are you needing to go here?” Cobb asked after a few minutes.

Din resettled his expression into something more serious.

_As far as I can._

Cobb nodded.

“Alright. I’ve got an idea that might work, if you’re willin’ to play along.”

Din narrowed his eyes.

“You—are you willing to keep walking around like,” Cobb gestured to Din’s person, “this? Without the armor?”

Din nodded. The admission brought less panic than he had expected it to, though it still made his lungs tighten momentarily.

“So, what we can do is just—pretend you’re not you. No one will recognize you out of the armor, so we can say your just a traveler in need of a place to stay until you get back on your feet.”

Din tilted his head to the side, brow furrowed.

_Is that kind of thing common here?_

“I wouldn’t say common necessarily, but not unheard of. The desert is a harsh place; it’s been known to spit people out half-dead.”

Din crossed his arms over his chest, staring at the floor. It wasn’t a bad plan—if nothing else, it was _a_ plan, which is more than Din had.

“We can even say you’ve got some amnesia from being out in the heat too long, that way people don’t get to bein’ too nosy.”

Din glanced up at Cobb, a grin teasing at his lips.

_You seem like you’ve got practice in making up stories._

Cobb shrugged, “Keeps the nights from getting boring.”

There was more to that sentence than was on the surface, but Din couldn’t tell what it was.

“So, what do you think? Willing to become a stranger for a while?”

Din nodded. He was already a stranger to himself; what was being a stranger to everyone else?

Cobb smiled. He dumped his bowl in the sink, making his way out of the kitchen.

“I’ll get the guest room set up.”

Din’s arm shot out, grabbing Cobb’s wrist as he passed. They stared at each other, equal amounts of surprise on both of their faces. Din let go, keeping his eyes on Cobb’s face as he signed, his movements sure.

_My name is Din. Din Djarin._

Cobb stared at his hands, then his face. They were close enough that Din could pick out the individual colors of his eyes.

“Din,” Cobb said, as if trying the name out for size. “Is that your—your actual name?”

Din nodded.

“Okay. Din Djarin.”

The soft, low drawl of his voice as it said the name sent of curl of warmth through Din. For once, he actually was glad to belong to the name.

Cobb continued his path across the house, and Din picked his bowl back off of the counter. It had cooled considerably, but was still delicious as Din raised it to his lips. He closed his eyes and listened to Cobb walk back and forth, muttering to himself as drawers opened and closed, fabric rustled. He finished off his soup, putting his bowl with Cobb’s in the sink and wandering into the living room. He hadn’t taken the time to observe his surroundings, earlier. The home was simple in design, plain stone walls and floors broken up by a worn couch and a coffee table. A few pictures hung on the walls, Cobb standing with various people—Din recognized the Weequay barkeeper, but that was it. The only two doors in the house led to each of the bedrooms: one Din had come from earlier, and the other he could hear Cobb in. A hatch sat in the floor between the two, and Din stared at it for a moment before moving on.

His feet carried him back in the bedroom—Cobb's bedroom, he now realized. His armor was still where he left it, the blank stare of his helmet watching his approach. It felt oddly like a judgement, and Din felt panic claw at his throat. He picked up the helmet, his eyes tracing the familiar lines and angles. It was heavy in his hands, and it sent a chill of memory through him: taking the helmet off to do the face scan, exposing himself to a room full of Imperials.

At least they were all dead now. No one left to tell the tale save for Mayfeld, and who knew if anyone would even believe him if he broke his word and told the story to others?

A cough to his left caught Din’s attention, and he looked up to see Cobb watching him from the doorway.

“Bedroom’s all ready,” he said gently. “There’s a closet in there, I made room for your armor in it.”

Din’s face twisted into a grimace as he set the helmet back down.

_Do you have anywhere more—_

It took Din a second to find the word he wanted.

_Secure?_

Cobb raised a brow, “Well, there’s always the basement. It’s meant to withstand sandstorms, and anything that can keep that much sand out can keep just about anything else out too.”

Din nodded.

_Can I hide all this down there?_

Cobb nodded, “Sure. Here, I’ll help you pack it all down.”

Din began stacking the armor as Cobb left the room. There was the sound of stone scraping against stone, and then Cobb reappeared, taking the pieces of armor Din hadn’t gathered yet into his arms. After a moment’s hesitation Din left his blaster pistol and vibroknife behind—it was one thing to be unarmored, another to be left totally defenseless.

Din’s hand hesitated over the Darksaber. He thought, briefly, about tossing it out into the desert, letting it get swallowed by the sands. It wouldn’t solve anything in the end—Bo-Katan would still track him down, demand that it be returned to her. With a heavy sigh Din picked it up, adding it to the pile. It was a problem for another day—hopefully one far, far into the future.

Din turned to Cobb, tilting his head in a way he hoped indicated that the marshal should lead. Cobb seemed to understand, leading them back into the living room. The hatch Din had seen previously was now open, a set of stairs leading down into the darkness. Cobb paused halfway down the stairs to hit a switch on his right, light filling the basement from a series of bulbs set into the ceiling. The basement was mostly empty, a cot pushed against one wall and a series of crates and shelves against two of the others. Din’s eyes flicked across the room, quickly taking stock of all the items within: various tools, speeder parts, scrap metal.

“Now, where’s the best place to stash this away?” Cobb muttered. He set his armful delicately on the cot and walked to one of the crates. Cobb dug through it before shaking his head and moving to another.

“Ah, here, this’ll do.”

Din crossed the room, watching as Cobb pulled several droid parts out of the crate, setting them on the floor.

“Go ahead and set it in there,” he directed, moving and picking the armor up off of the cot. Din did as instructed, setting the armor piece by piece into the crate, careful to not accidentally activate any of the weapons in his vambraces. Cobb’s pieces followed, the helmet staring up at Din accusingly before the droid parts went back on top. What little of the beskar peaked through blended in with the rest of the metal, and Cobb threw a tarp over the top of it for good measure.

It felt like a burial.

Din stared at the tarp covered crate, an unknown emotion curdling in his stomach. The Mandalorian was dead and buried—all that was left was Din Djarin.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there—eventually, Cobb’s hand found its way to his back, guiding him back up the stairs. He watched the hatch close with a heavy thud, and he sank against the back of the couch, his hands automatically finding the edges of his cloak and pulling it tighter around himself. He was shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Something moved in his peripheral and he flinched.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s just me.”

Cobb’s voice was low and steady. It cut through the rapidly descending fog of panic, enough that Din could recognize the marshal’s form standing next to him. A hand reached out, hovering a few inches from his shoulder for several seconds before closing the distance. The contact sent a jolt through Din, and he found himself leaning into the touch. After a few seconds Cobb stepped closer, raising his other hand with the same slowness and letting it land on Din’s other shoulder.

“You’re gonna be okay, Din. You’re safe here. I’m gonna _keep you_ safe, I swear.”

Din swallowed, his arms lifting to fit around Cobb’s back. He stepped closer, tightening his grip and burying his face into the soft fabric of Cobb’s scarf. Cobb’s hands drifted down his back, one holding him tight while the other rubbed up and down. It took Din a minute to realize he was crying, silent tears leaking from his eyes and soaking into the scarf. The hand traversing his back trailed up into his hair, tangling in the brown curls. The shock of sensation grabbed all of Din’s attention, and he grasped desperately at it, clinging to it like a lifeline.

For the first time in weeks, Din let himself feel all the emotions that he had been shoving aside in favor of his mission, and it _hurt_.

Cobb led him around the couch, the two of them sinking into the cushions with Din half-sprawled over Cobb, his face tucked into the space between his neck and shoulder. Cobb held him close, continuing to run his fingers through Din’s hair, the other pressed between his shoulder blades and holding him close. The tremor’s wracking Din’s body had increased, each one feeling as if it was going to shatter him into a thousand pieces.

Cobb began humming again, the same unknown tune he had been humming in the kitchen. The vibrations of it passed from his chest to Din’s where they were pressed together, and Din let the feeling worm its way under his skin. He struggled to get his breathing under control, forcing each breath in and out in a slow, measured rhythm. Bit by bit the tremors subsided until Din was left wrung out and limp, Cobb being the only thing keeping him upright. The marshal seemed in no rush to move, continuing to hum as he held Din close.

“Been a while since you let yourself take a moment to breathe, hasn’t it?” Cobb asked quietly.

Din nodded, the soft fabric of Cobb’s shirt dragging across his cheek. Everything felt like too much and yet he couldn’t get enough, greedily taking in each sensation. The steady rise and fall of Cobb’s chest; the sounds of people outside the house, going about their lives; the thump of his own heart, the blood rushing through his ears. It reminded him he was alive, despite everything that had happened. Despite the dark troopers, the Moff, the Jedi, every physical and emotional blow he had taken since he had landed on Tython.

He was still _alive_.

He slowly untangled himself from Cobb, scrubbing his hands over his face. Exhaustion tugged at him, though now it was the strung-out tiredness of emotional labor, rather than the blank weariness of being empty.

He dropped his hands and faced Cobb. The marshal stared back, waiting for Din to make the first move. Din raised his hands, then paused. He inhaled, letting the air feel his lungs and expand his chest.

“Thank you.”

The words were barely above a whisper, and Din hardly recognized his own voice for how thin and rough it was. Cobb smiled all the same, relief dropping his shoulders.

“Happy to help.”

The days slowly drug into weeks.

The townspeople had readily accepted the marshal’s story about Din being a lost traveler, heat and dehydration robbing him of his memories and most of his voice. ‘Desert dazzled’ he had called it. They welcomed him in with open arms and friendly smiles, offering their assistance with anything he might need. He thanked each one of them, though he had to stick to signing as his voice still failed him when he tried to vocalize. Cobb was all too happy to translate as needed, though it turned out that quite a few of the townspeople could sign as well.

Din stuck with Cobb most of the time, partially due to fabricated necessity and partially due to the familiarity and comfort the marshal’s presence brought. As it turned out, Cobb’s job as marshal had become almost a formality, with the krayt dragon dead and the peace with the Tuskens still standing. It made Din proud in a way he didn’t fully understand when Cobb told him about their improving relations with the Tuskens. They had begun a tentative trade with each other, the main obstacle being the language barrier. Cobb had started learning the language, but he was the first to admit he had a long way to go. Din had offered to help him work on it, and tried not to think about the way the marshal’s thankful, excited smile made him feel.

With little to no marshalling to do, Cobb’s routine mainly consisted of patrolling the surrounding desert for signs of bandits or gang members, doing any repairs needed around town, and clearing the occasional sketto nest from the nearby mines. All were things that Din was happy to lend a hand with, even if repairing moisture vaporators was miles apart from repairing a space ship. Cobb—and the rest of the town—were eager to teach him, showing him which tools to use, and when to just bang on the thing until it finally started working.

Mos Pelgo had begun growing in the time Din had been gone, again thanks to the defeat of the krayt dragon. While still a tiny town, there were new buildings going up every week—first a proper schoolhouse, then a barn to give the banthas a place to shelter from the sun. Din helped build those too, the tedious work giving him time to also work through the tangled knot of thoughts and emotions he had been stuck with after Gideon’s defeat. It still drug on him, like trying to walk with weights tied to his limbs, but day by day he was coming to terms with what had happened. He had a long way to go, but it was becoming easier.

His voice came back slowly as well, enough that he could whisper. He still relied heavily on signing, using his voice exclusively when it was just him and Cobb.

There were other things too, that were just between him and Cobb.

One of the first things they had done was get Din some clothes—all he had to his name was his flightsuit, and they were built too different for him to borrow anything from Cobb or anyone else in town. They had ridden to Mos Eisley, Cobb bartering and haggling until they had Din a small wardrobe of clothes suited towards the desert, light colors and breathable materials that covered as much skin as possible without risking heat stroke. What Din hadn’t expected was the rich blue scarf Cobb handed him once they were back in Mos Pelgo. Din wasn’t sure how Cobb had bought it without him noticing, but Cobb merely chuckled and said that half the joy in giving a gift was the surprise.

A gift. One that Din wore every day.

It only took a couple of weeks for them to find a routine together. Cobb was an extremely early riser, awake and ready for the day before Din was even completely out of bed. Cobb made them breakfast, usually something light and easy. Din made them lunch, discovering to his surprise that he enjoyed the easy, innate rhythm of cooking. Dinner they made together, Cobb teaching Din the multitude of recipes he knew, all the little tips and tricks only a lifetime of cooking could teach.

When the suns would finally set each day, they would either join the other townspeople in the cantina or keep their own company on the roof of their home—and Din couldn’t pinpoint when it had become _their_ home, only that it had. Din would readily admit he liked the nights at home best; he had never been much for crowds, and while the people in Mos Pelgo were nice, there were a lot of them and they, inevitably, got loud. On the roof of their home, just the two of them with the stars above and a bottle of spotchka between them, it was as if they were the only two people in the galaxy. Sometimes they would sit in silence, tired from a day’s work and just happy to enjoy each other’s company. Sometimes they would talk: Din would share some of his adventures bounty hunting, Cobb would tell him about growing up under the twin suns. There were a lot of things they didn’t say, and yet knew and understood: that Din’s parents had been killed when he was young, that Cobb had been a slave for a large part of his childhood.

Eventually they would go to bed, exhaustion winning out against the desire for company—at least for the first five weeks. One late, late night after driving off a group of bandits, wounds tended and spotchka drank, Din found the sharp, lonely ache in his chest too much to bear alone. The next morning Din woke up in Cobb’s bed, limbs and blankets so tangled together there was no way to tell where Din began and Cobb ended. It was so easy, so natural a thing that, when night fell again, Din simply followed Cobb into his room, readily accepting the sturdy arms that wrapped around his waist and the warm chest that pressed against his back.

The kiss that Din sleepily pressed to Cobb’s cheek when the marshal handed him a cup of caf a few mornings later, barely awake but warm in ways more than physical, was just as natural. They didn’t talk about it—there was no need. It was just another part of the new life they were building together.

Day by day, Din could feel the thousand shattered pieces of himself slot back together.

Thirteen weeks passed like that before trouble rode into town.

They had a little bit of warning, at least. A pair of Tuskens that traveled by the town told of a pair of blue armored Mandalorians crossing the desert. Din’s stomach dropped, knowing without any other details who it was. He had explained to Cobb, a fragment at a time, what had happened since he had first left Mos Pelgo. About meeting other Mandalorians on Trask; the Jedi on Corvus; Boba Fett on Tython; Moff Gideon kidnapping the child, and the desperate rescue that followed. He didn’t have to explain, then, who was coming. Didn’t have to explain what they were after.

“What do you want to do?” Cobb asked once they were back home.

Din was silent for a long time, staring at his hands. There was a new scar that ran across the back of his left hand, where the edge of a bandit’s knife had sliced through several weeks back. The kinfe had been aiming for Din’s face, and he had brought his hand up to shield it, helmet still hidden away in the basement.

_I don’t know._ He signed eventually.

Cobb sighed, running his hand through his hair.

“This is your show,” he said, “but I’m here with ya, whatever happens.”

Din nodded. After several minutes he crossed to the hatch that led to the basement and lifted it. He avoided it as often as he could, going down once a week to maintain his armor, doing it as quickly and efficiently as possible. He was glad for the habit now as he put on first his flightsuit, then the armor, each piece slotting into place. He was aware of Cobb standing behind him, watching in silence as each piece went on. He stared at his helmet for a long moment before sliding it on. The Darksaber was the last piece he grabbed, the hilt heavy in his hand.

When he turned Cobb was leaning against the wall by the stairs, beskar spear retrieved from its hiding place and in his hand. There was no hesitation on his face, no fear. Just determination, and a steadfastness Din had come to associate with Cobb. Din closed the space between them, not stopping until they were chest to chest. He dipped his head just enough so that their foreheads met, holding the position for several seconds. Cobb’s eyes closed as he leaned into it. They stood there for a minute, just existing in each other’s space, before Din pulled away and headed up the stairs.

They rode out just as the suns reached their zenith, dust kicking up behind their speeder as Mos Pelgo faded behind them. Dread curdled in Din’s stomach, only partially subdued by the steady presence of Cobb in front of him driving the speeder. From behind him Din had a good view of the tense line of Cobb’s shoulders, the rigidity of his spine. His was probably a mirror to it, and he forced himself to relax. He wrapped his arms carefully around Cobb’s waist, leaning his forehead against the space between his shoulder blades. Cobb didn’t even flinch, his only acknowledgement the way he leant back into Din.

As the crested the top of one of Tatooine’s endless dunes, Din caught sight of two blue dots shimmering at the bottom. Cobb saw them too and drifted the speeder to a stop. Din dismounted, putting a few steps between him and the speeder. The Darksaber hung heavy from his belt. The blue dots came closer, and Din was able to tell it was Bo-Katan, Koska fast at her heels. That same dread was still coiled in Din’s belly, though now it was getting drowned out by a tidal wave of adrenaline, Din’s body preparing for a fight even as his mind begged to avoid it. They stopped their speeders several feet away from Din, both of them dismounting though only Bo-Katan stepped forward. Neither of them spoke, staring at each other through layers of beskar. Neither of them made a move to remove their helmets.

“You know what I’m here for,” Bo-Katan said after a few minutes.

It took Din a few tries to find his voice. When he did, it was rough, the syllables bumping into each other like rocks sliding down a canyon wall.

“I do. Will you not simply take it from me?”

“I cannot.”

Din sighed. The wind whistled between them, sand dancing through the air before settling at their feet.

“Fine,” Din bit out, “I will fight you. We go until one of us is either disarmed, or can no longer continue fighting.”

“That is not—”

“Those are my terms, and the _only_ terms on which I will fight you. I have no desire to kill anyone today.”

Bo-Katan sighed as she rolled her shoulders.

“Very well. _My_ terms _:_ hand-to-hand combat only. No blasters, no melee weapons.” Her helmet dipped towards the Darksaber.

“That is acceptable.”

“I assume your friend will serve as your caller?” She gestured towards where Cobb still sat on the speeder.

Din turned to look at him. Cobb said nothing, eyes sharp but head tilted to the side in question.

“If I become unable to continue fighting, it will be up to you to step in and end the fight. A call to stop will suffice.”

Cobb’s expression twisted into a grimace, but he nodded. “I got your back, Din.”

Din nodded, “Thank you.”

Din pulled the Darksaber from its place, setting it down on the speeder’s seat. The spear followed, as did his blaster pistol and vibroknife.

“Good luck,” Cobb whispered.

Din turned back to Bo-Katan to see she had also disarmed herself. He didn’t bother to ask if Koska would call for her. Bo-Katan angled her body so that her side faced Din, bringing her hands coming up in front of her. Din mimicked her stance, something in him quieting as he prepared for a fight.

Bo-Katan came at him in a rush, her feet slipping for just a moment on the sand. Din had no such problem—learning to move properly through the sand was one of the first things the townspeople had taught him—and twisted easily away from the punch aimed at his throat. He blocked another punch with his vambrace, the sound of beskar meeting beskar ringing through the dunes. Bo-Katan took a couple quick steps back, and Din followed, dropping low and sweeping his leg out towards her ankles. She spun away, sand flying around her. Din twisted back to standing, and they were right back where they started. Din stared her down, waiting. This was her fight; he just happened to be the opponent.

She came at him again with a series of quick jabs aimed at the places where his armor didn’t cover. He blocked each one, throwing punches the Bo-Katan blocked just as efficiently. There was no hesitation, no pulling of punches—Din had been trained to never hold back, and he didn’t now, despite how much he was ready for the fight to be finished.

Another flurry of blows, and this time one slipped passed his guard, catching him in the exposed part of his ribs between his chestplate and jetpack. He grunted, ignoring the snap of pain as he blocked a kick aimed for his knee. He dropped his stance and leaned forward, jamming his shoulder into her chestplate and sending her skidding backwards through the sand.

Bo-Katan shouted as she charged at him, her jetpack igniting when she was just a step away from him. A knee came towards Din’s face, and he tilted backwards to avoid it. A kick towards the side of his head that he ducked below, reaching for the leg to try and pull Bo-Katan back to the ground. She flew just out of reach, then immediately dove forwards, wrapping her arms around his torso as she made impact. The air left Din in a rush as his feet left the ground, only for his back to meet it a second later. Bo-Katan was on top of him instantly and she pulled her fist back, the other hand wrapped around Din’s throat. He started to buck her off—it would have been easy, considering how much bulk he had on her—then stopped. Forced himself to go limp under her.

“I yield.”

The wind howled around them.

Bo-Katan stared at him for a moment before she nodded, lifting herself off of him. No words were said as she walked stiffly to where Din had placed his weapons. She picked the Darksaber up and ignited the blade. She swung it back and forth a few times before the blade sunk back into the hilt. She turned to Din and nodded once more, then walked to where Koska and her speeder waited. Din rose as she mounted her speeder, turning to face Cobb and letting the sound of their speeders disappear behind him. With each step he felt lighter, the reality that the burden of the Darksaber was gone sinking in.

“Ya alright there?” Cobb asked.

Din hummed as he stopped beside Cobb. Watched as the wind tossed his hair around the concerned furrow of his brow. His gripped the bottom edge of his helmet and lifted it off, the sudden rush of air cooling the flush of exertion. He leaned down, cupping Cobb’s jaw with one hand as he brushed their lips together. Cobb sighed into the kiss, his hands finding purchase around Din’s hips. Din pulled back only enough to press their foreheads together, eyes closed and a grin dancing around his lips.

“Yeah, I’m alright. Let’s go home.”

They didn’t bother trying to sneak their way into town.

If anyone was surprised to realize that the Mandalorian who had once helped save their town and Din the desert dazzled traveler were the same person, they said nothing about it. They simply welcomed them back, glad that both of them had returned whole and hale from protecting the town.

Once the door to their home was shut behind them, Din began the process of removing his armor. Cobb helped, his hands finding buckles and straps with ease. Piece by piece it came away until all that was left was his flightsuit, and that came off soon after. They gathered it all up between them, though when Cobb moved to open the basement door Din stopped him, moving instead to the spare bedroom and the closet within. Each piece found a home on the shelves inside, the beskar spear leaning against the wall beside the door. The flightsuit would need to be cleaned, but it would go with the rest of it after. Tucked away, but not too far out of reach if it was needed; Mos Pelgo might have been safe from krayt dragons and Tuskens, but there were plenty of other threats that they’d need to protect it from.

They crawled into bed together afterwards, hands tracing planes of warm, scarred skin, and Din leaned forward to kiss Cobb. There was no rush to their movements, no words spoken between them as their bodies moved together, pressed as close as the laws of the universe would allow.

“Can I stay?” Din whispered against Cobb’s lips.

“Yes,” was the whispered reply.

“Even if it’s for a while?”

“Even if it’s for the rest of our lives.”

Din smiled into the next kiss. There was still a Grogu-shaped hole in his heart that would never heal, but the rest of the shattered pieces of Din Djarin were back together where they should be—in the arms of Cobb Vanth.


End file.
